"Right-o!" Flannagan answered cheerily. Shane kicked off his shoes, slipped out of his coat.... "This damned woman!" he thought as he dropped astern, came out, began to cast for direction like an otter-hound.... He heard her soft rhythmical strokes ahead.... He tore after her ... caught up ... reached her shoulder.... "Come back, Granya!" "No, Shane." He had decided, once he reached her, to turn her back by force, but the strange gentle voice restrained him. All this matter of Ireland, all this expedition of opera bouffe, took on again a strange dimension when she spoke.... All the time he had been foolish, he knew, and, worse, looked like a fool, but some strange magic of her voice made it seem natural ... the naive brave gestures.... One levitated above common ground.... Even this moon-madness did not seem trivial and a thing for laughter.... A dignity of ancient stories was on it.... The blue Irish hills, soft as down, the little moon, and the tide hurrying out of the lough to the great Atlantic.... A wrench of the will and he gripped her shoulder: "Shane, please don't!" "You're coming back, Granya." "I'm not, Shane, and please don't hold me. I'm getting weak." "You'll never make it, Granya. And if you did, where would you go on the Donegal hills?" "I don't know, Shane. But please let me go, I implore you.... Even if I do go down.... Don't you see? There is nothing for me but this, or death.... My life.... O Shane, let me go!" "Quiet, Granya!" He caught her wrist. "Please, Shane. Please. I pray of you...." She began to twist.... "O Shane, you hurt." "Quiet, Granya. Boat--o!" The lantern of the coast-guards' cutter came nearer.... The measured swish of the oars ... the creak.... She began to struggle fiercely.... "Granya, if you don't keep quiet, I'll have to hit you...." "O Shane!" she whimpered.... "All right Get her on board. Steady, there. Trim a little. Good!" Flannagan and a great bearded coast-guard had her.... The silence was broken with her little sobs.... He helped her over the waist of the schooner.... "Go below, Granya, and get into some dry clothes.... Mr. Flannagan, I'll take the boat back to St. Petersburg.... If Miss O'Malley doesn't land neither do I. May I send a letter ashore? It's only about business, and the place in the glens...." "I'll take it and have it sent." "Another thing; we want to get some provisions and water." "Of course, sir.... That's all right." "Do you think one of the country girls could be persuaded to come on board as Miss O'Malley's maid?" "I think so. We'll ask the local priest." "Oh, yes, the priest.... Another thing: do you think you could dig out a parson around here somewhere and bring him on board?" "O Shane, what do you want that for?" She hadn't gone below, but waited in the companionway. "You don't think you're going wandering around with me, casually, like this?" "But it's only to St. Petersburg, Shane!" "And then where do you go? What do you do?"